


House of Bad Intentions

by hpaufan (goodtea)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Draco Malfoy-centric, Good Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter-centric, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Second War with Voldemort, back and forth plot, more to be added as the story progresses - Freeform, rewriting a significant portion of the series so this is heavy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodtea/pseuds/hpaufan
Summary: So we all know how the story goes. Boy-who-lived grows up, gets great friends, a bunch of stuff happens and then Voldemort dies. Only, Voldemort dies a over year early in this one, and a lot of stuff no one seems to know about happens as well.A redemption story for Draco Malfoy because he deserves one and I'll never get over J.K. Rowling's handling of his character. SO much potential! SO squandered. But not in this story :) Hope it's interesting enough for people to read because I'm writing it down anyway (this has been stuck in my head for a while).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I'll just post the intro and first chapter for now. I keep rewriting the intro and I have a feeling I'll never be satisfied with it, so I'm posting it now before I drive myself mad with it. Constructive criticism welcome here and on every chapter of the story! I've got about four chapters written right now so fingers crossed that I make it to the end!
> 
> Special thanks to my local coffee shop for letting me use their wifi while I write this haha.

Sunny weather had been forecast for the day, but it made little difference in the basement levels of the Ministry of Magic. As always, the lower levels were poorly lit, committed to a somber aesthetic. One particular hallway echoed lightly with the quiet conversation of two men. The words were quiet and indiscernible to wandering ears with the effects of a  _ muffliato _ .

“Did you never wonder,” the wizengamot man gently asked, the corners of his eyes softly crinkled and his back hunched with age, “how exactly his father escaped a sentence to Azkaban after the first war?”

“Money,” Harry’s answer was quick and certain, “and lies. He lied about being under the imperius curse and bought off whoever didn’t believe him.”

Crowles, the wizengamot man, frowned. “The thought that your generation is so quick to accuse mine of corruption does not bode well.” 

Harry didn’t say anything. He hadn’t survived a war by always believing in the best of every witch or wizard. The old man seemed to note the silence and understand its significance. “But perhaps that reputation has been earned,” Crowles sighed and looked up at the younger man with a sad smile. “After the first downfall of Voldemort, Lucius went to trial for heinous crimes, got pardoned, and the ministry received a rather large mystery donation. It must all look like bad politics to you.” 

At Harry’s blank stare the man suddenly thought he felt very tired, though it was only half past lunch hour. “There was once a time that the name ‘Malfoy’ inspired respect and fear of the good kind in the wizarding world. Even awe, for some.”

“I didn’t think there was a good kind of fear,” muttered Harry. “Are you saying Malfoy got off on his charges so easy because of his last name? I didn’t think it still held any kind of power.”

Now Mr. Crowles gave Harry a strange look. “You testified at his trial in his favor today. I recall you saying his role was crucial to your victory. Did you do so because you were hoping to see him punished severely?”

Harry had the good sense to look chastised. “Well, no. I don’t think he deserves Azkaban, at least. But I don’t think mandatory sessions with a mind healer count as punishment, either. Not for his crimes.”

“So you speak for him to soften his sentence, then feel frustrated when his sentence is soft? It is not a punishment. It is mandatory. Draco Malfoy’s needs counseling to help his recovery after playing his part in the war. I know you weren’t allowed in for most of the trial and so are not privy to the details, but I assure you the sentence is fair. The boy deserves some time off to readjust, and so do you. You’re both only sixteen.”

“Time off? Off to do what? Be evil? I don’t trust Draco Malfoy to do the right thing with ‘time off’.” Harry couldn’t keep the incredulous tone out of his voice and didn’t bother to try. Still, something nagged at the back of Harry’s mind. A scarred hand. A cloak that dripped darkness. A voice full of snark that Harry wished to forget. 

Crowles gave Harry a leveling look that Harry briefly reminded him of McGonagall whenever she had caught him in the hallways after curfew. For a moment he was twelve again, under the scrutiny of a stern gaze and the world was a much simpler, if still dangerous, place. He was brought back as Crowles spoke. 

“I wager you could do with a mind healer yourself. You have the look. The haunted look.”

Harry swallowed and stepped back. There were some things he was not ready to discuss. They were too raw and  not anyone’s business. “Will you tell me nothing about Malfoy then? Will you not answer my question about why he got off so easy? I can’t imagine what sort of lies he’s spun to have you convinced that a  _ former Death Eater _ needs  _ time off _ .” Harry scoffed.

“Do not be so quick to judge one of your own peers, Mr. Potter. The wizarding world holds many secrets and the purebloods exist even separate from the rest of us. Do not become fixated on hate. Trust that the aurors did their job researching the case. Trust that the wizengamot is not made of soft, blind old fools. This was the second coming of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Do you think anyone would hesitate to convict one of  _ his _ followers? The war is still fresh on everyone’s minds. I assure you no one is feeling  _ lenient _ .”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t mean to imply-”

“Imply you did. And I cannot, under wizengamot oath, share the details of the case with you. No matter how persistently you ask or how well intentioned you believe yourself to be.”

Harry nodded. If it was an oath holding the old man back there was nothing to be done about it. Magical oaths were unbreakable. But could Harry accept that Draco had walked into his trial a confirmed Death Eater and then walked out a free man? That would be harder to do.

“However,” Harry startled a bit, not expecting Crowles to go on after a long silence, “I can point you in the right direction.” Harry stared at the old man. “Might you, per chance, know French, Mr. Potter?”

Harry frowned. French? “A bit, maybe,” he replied uneasily. It was related to Latin, right? Close enough?

Crowles nodded, not bothered by Harry’s hesitation. “Tell me, what do the words ‘mal foi’ translate to?”

Harry hesitated, guessing, “Bad faith?”

Crowles smiled, the edges of his mouth crinkling. “Yes. ‘Bad Faith’. Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is the purpose of carrying a name like ‘Bad Faith’ in a country as historically Christian as England? The Malfoys came to England at the height of The Persecution.” The Persecution. The name given to the height of the witch trials in Europe. Or at least the height of when actual witches, and the occasional wizard, had been persecuted and burned at the stake. Before everyone learned the charms that made being burned at the stake a stage performance, and after paranoid muggles had started burning other muggles. Following The Persecution the Statue of Secrecy had gained popularity and had become heavily enforced. The divide between wizards and muggles had grown. Harry remembered the details hazily from professor Binns’ tutelage in third year. 

Harry felt thoroughly puzzled. How had they gone from Malfoy’s sentence to wizarding history? He narrowed his eyes. “How is this related to Malfoy’s sentence, Mr. Crowles?”

But Crowles only smiled and patted Harry on the arm. “I suggest, Mr. Potter, that if you want answers about the circumstances surrounding Mr. Malfoy now, that you start with the original House of Mal Foi. History, you will come to find, is never as easily forgotten as we may think and tends to repeat itself.” And when Harry only stared Crowles patted his arm again and then moved off down the ministry hallway, muttering something about a late lunch.

Harry, perplexed, was left alone in the dim hallways with more questions than answers. Perhaps it was time to visit Hermione. He didn’t understand what Crowles was trying to hint at, but maybe the smartest witch of their generation would.

 

Hermione set on the quest for information on the House of Mal Foi like a dog after his favorite treat. The one thing Hermione liked better than being well-informed was the original hunt for information itself. With only a month until the reopening of Hogwarts and the beginning of their sixth year, she wasted no time cracking open the genealogy books at the Weasleys, tracing their line back several generations until it crossed to the Malfoys. From there she cross referenced names in history books and continued tracing the line back using half-completed journals and whatever bits of wizarding history that seemed relevant. Nothing much came up until she, in a fit of frustration, tried checking  _ muggle _ historical records. Then things got interesting.

“‘The House of Mal Foi was famous for being a smuggling facility. They smuggled everything from banned books to banned substances and even’, listen to this Harry, ‘persecuted peoples across England and nearby Europe. Persecuted peoples suspected to have gained the House of Mal Foi’s sympathies include, but may not be limited to, early heretics persecuted during religious hysteria.’” Hermione looked up from her place on the couch, history text cradled gently in her arms. At Harry’s blank look she rolled her eyes and translated.

“Think about it. This means the Malfoys were hiding and saving witches and wizards from the Persecution. The Malfoys were the  _ heroes _ back then. They took a risk to smuggle those persecuted. That must be where the respect for the Malfoy name comes from.”

This, however, was not enough for Harry. “Wasn’t that a long time ago? Why should they still get credit for something their ancestors did?”

Hermione frowned. “I’m not sure. Wizarding society is awfully traditional though. I wouldn’t be surprised if the respect just carried on over the generations.” Harry didn’t reply, lost in thoughts about a scarred hand and posh accent. Hermione noticed his distraction and cut across it with a question, “Harry? Not that I mind having something to do during the summer and not that this isn’t all fascinating to me- it is, really- but why are you so fixated on this? The war is over and we survived. Why does it matter what happens to Malfoy now?”

Harry looked up, face pale. How to explain? 

“It has to do with  _ him _ , doesn’t it?”

Unable to admit it out loud, Harry simply nodded.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a quick visit to Malfoy Manor. Or something. I've always been bad at summaries ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again critiques and comments are welcome! Please type words at me!

_ Several months earlier. Pre downfall of Voldemort. Malfoy Manor. _

Harry knew he was going to die, and he felt tired. He had been running from death, from his own dreary fate, for years. Running actively ever since he defeated Voldemort that second time as an eleven year old child. And now, in the Malfoy dungeons, death might have finally caught up. 

It took a lot to make Harry James Potter give up. As far as he’d ever admit to anyone, Harry had never given up. As far as he’d admit to himself, Harry had given up many, many times in private moments that belonged only to himself. Curled under his bed sheets at night, alone with his thoughts and the knowledge that he was never truly safe, there had been moments when Harry had felt it was all too much and what was the point? Scared of a world that wanted to both celebrate and kill him. To worship as a savior and to sacrifice in the same word. In his worst moments, Harry knew he was a lamb to the slaughter. The worst part was that he couldn’t blame them, couldn’t blame wizarding kind because they only wanted the promise of safety and who didn’t want that? Why not sacrifice one life if it could save thousands? If one boy needed to grow up too fast and die too fast to save them all, well, so be it. In his bravest moments, Harry supposed he should be grateful for the honor.

Except, chained in the Malfoy dungeons, Harry found that he very much did not want to die and that he did not feel very brave. It was his own fault, his own stupidity that had got him caught in the first place. While Hermione and co had the good sense to apparate away from the Snatchers that had surprised them in the forest, Harry had stood his ground with the faulty idea that he could disarm them and take them hostage for information for the Order. How wrong he’d been.

Sometimes he wondered how long ago Voldemort would have been defeated if Hermione were the Chosen One instead. She certainly had the intelligence and the focus to be a proper savior, and unlike Harry she knew when to run. Chained in the dungeons where no one could find him, Harry felt like half of his own victories might have been built on luck.

It had been a quick battle, with Harry only managing to injure himself and not his enemies. The Snatchers had apparated right to the manor, dragging the injured Harry with them. They had dragged Harry up the stairs to a sitting room. Why anyone had a sitting room  _ upstairs _ Harry had no idea. There he had been subjected to questions and pain. They wanted know about the Order of the Phoenix. Locations. Plans. Harry supposed it was good that he wasn’t trusted with either as he had started babbling about half an hour in, desperate for a reprieve from the cruciatus curse. Desperate for a break from the pain and scared out of his mind Harry had lied and said whatever he needed to get them to  _ stop _ .

They’d finally let up as Harry had broken down sobbing. It had been embarrassing. Mortifying, even. The savior of the wizarding world broken and reduced to tears so quickly. But Harry was only fifteen and unprepared to be a soldier, even if the world tended to forget it at times. Harry was almost thankful when they threw him into the dungeons. He could slowly pull himself back together in privacy. Only, they had left him and not come back. For days. Harry had watched the passage of time through the small barred windows set just below the ceiling that occasionally let in sunlight.

Ten days later Harry was feeling quite hopeless and then the explosion happened. Harry sat up, chains clinking, as the entire house shook. Panicked shouts drifted down from the floor above. The pounding of running feet across the floorboards as people scrambled to gain their bearings. Whatever had set off the explosion upstairs had caused general chaos to ensue. 

Harry had time to hope for a rescue mission- had the Order found where they were holding him?- before the dungeon door swung open and a hooded figure stalked forward. Harry recoiled against the dungeon walls. Darkness misted off the hooded figure like fog, screaming  _ strong dark magic _ and  _ Death Eater _ . Not someone from Harry’s side, then.

Worn out from his torture session upstairs and days of starvation, Harry wearily backed into the cold stone wall behind him as far as he could with the manacles limiting his movement on his wrists. The figure started speaking, voice quiet and calm, but commanding. “The Dark Lord approaches. He has been meaning to getting around to killing you, now that we know whatever information you have is useless.” 

The figure pulled out a wand, and Harry would have backed even further away if he could. The figure kept speaking. “He will be here any minute. I have to get you out before he arrives. The explosion charms I’ve set up will keep everyone busy for a while, but they’ll catch on soon enough. They’re nothing more than high quality illusions. Once everyone figures that out the first thing they’ll be checking is that you’re still in your cell. If you follow my orders, you won't be.” 

If the voice seemed slightly familiar, but Harry had no time to ponder it. He was still wrapping his head around what the figure that dripped dark magic had just said. The figure stopped a few feet away from the bars of Harry’s cell and took out a wand. He dressed like a Death Eater, wore a mask like a Death Eater, and yet he had just said something very un-Death Eater-like. Harry watched the dark energy shed from the unique cloak in lazy black tendrils, coiling and twisting off the fabric edges, as he thought. 

“Stay quiet,” said the figure that both radiated evil and promised to rescue Harry. The man muttered a word and Harry’s cell unlocked. Then the figure crouched down a bit and pointed his wand at Harry’s wrists, muttering once again. The manacles slid off. Harry noticed the wand seemed a bit peculiar, looking like a pale stick with no handle or discernable markings. 

More curiously, Harry noticed his would-be savior wore dark gloves of a sporty variety, leaving the skin of the fingertips and a small patch on the back of the hands clear. It was a small detail, but Harry’s eyes caught on a small, pink and jagged scar on the back of his savior’s left hand. Before he had a chance to get a better look the dark figure was standing, pocketing the wand.

Without a word Harry’s mystery savior turned abruptly and marched out of the dungeons. Despite his doubts Harry found himself scrambling to stand up and hurrying after the figure. He caught up with the cloaked man quickly on the steps, though he struggled. His feet were bare and cold on the stone steps and Harry had eaten so little recently that not even adrenaline could warm him the way it should. His tattered and dirty robes were no help. 

“Please,” he choked out, his voice raspy after not having said anything in days, “slow down a bit. I- I can’t keep up.” It pained Harry to admit this. He wasn’t a particularly proud person, but admitting to weakness in front of a potential enemy- or savior?- was not easy. Harry always felt pressure to be better. Faster, stronger, and good with magic so he wouldn’t let anyone down. But he was only human, and he was tired.

The figure barely paused, instead grabbing Harry by the back of the neck and shoving him forward, forcing the young boy to march quickly. The rough treatment was unexpected and Harry gave a startled yelp, calling attention to them just as they ascended to the first floor. 

“Hey!” A cloaked Death Eater was stalking towards them, “What are you doing with the prisoner? We’re supposed to leave him for the Dark Lord’s arrival!”

The figure by Harry’s side gave Harry an unexpected hard shove, causing Harry to stumble and fall forward onto his hands. 

Harry’s savior(?)  spoke, adding a nasty sneer to his tone, “And exactly how are we supposed to keep him alive for the Dark Lord if he dies under a pile of rubble while there are explosions going off in the manor? How pleased will our Dark Lord be when he learns Harry Potter has died, and not by his own hands?”

The Death Eater seemed taken aback for a moment, but persisted, “We’re supposed to keep him secure. He is not supposed to be moved.”

“The dungeons are hardly secure if they’re in danger of falling down.” The figure by Harry sounded bored and superior. “Besides, if all this noise is a rescue mission from his side the dungeons will be the first place they check. I’m moving him somewhere hidden. Unless you feel we should just wait and allow him to be rescued? I’m sure you feel confident enough in your reasoning to explain it to the Dark Lord yourself.” The dark figure towering over Harry sounded snarky. 

Harry was impressed even if he worried. It was a convincing ruse, if it was a ruse. For a moment he wondered if he really was only being moved to be saved for Voldemort’s games later. If Harry was doubtful, the other Death Eater was convinced. He backed off, grumbling a bit at having been told off. 

Harry watched the retreating Death Eater until he felt a tug on his arm. Looking up, he found the dark figure waiting for him, managing to convey impatientience even with a covered face. “Hurry up, Potter. They’ll recognize the charms soon enough and when they do, there’ll be hell to pay if you’re not gone.”

He tugged Harry up to his feet and shoved him forward again. “The whole idea behind rescuing you is getting you out  _ before _ I get caught. Which all your dawdling is making quite difficult, you should know.”

Harry would have retorted, but he figured his rescuer was allowed a certain amount of sass and, sadly, he had a point. Harry was struggling to keep up with their quick pace. The figure directed Harry through the complex halls of the mansion with a quiet word or an impatient hand on his shoulder. Harry focused on that hand, on the promise of freedom it represented, to keep himself calm and to keep from sprinting off in the opposite direction. The manor was a maze and Harry lost track of all direction as they moved up and down decorated halls. Without a guide he’d never make it out. 

At some point Harry fell behind, no longer able to keep pace. The frigid air of the Manor had Harry shivering violently, and his stumbling did him no favors in keeping up. Maybe realizing Harry was nearing the end of his rope, Harry’s savior grabbed Harry’s hand and resorted to tugging him along. Harry found the hands of his savior to be colder than his own. Amidst incessant tugging and stumbling, Harry found his fingers tracing the rough bumpy ridges of the scar he had  noticed earlier. Harry focused on the action, on the feel of every little bump and indent, to distract himself from his own discomfort and pain as his strength sapped out of him. It was easy to focus on the feel of that scar instead of the sensations of his own body shutting down.

They ended up in a bedroom with a four-poster bed, silver hangings and green walls warmed by the light from the fireplace. The mantle was covered in ornate carvings of snakes, and a large painting of Salazar Slytherin himself hung over the fireplace. The warmth was a stark contrast the everywhere else in the manor Harry had been and it pulled him out of his trance-like focus on the scar. 

He took in his surroundings and even with his exhaustion could not stop himself from remarking, “Could they do anything to make it more clear this is a Slytherin bedroom? I’m afraid I almost missed all the hints.” The cloaked figure responded to Harry’s sudden snark with a cut-off guffaw, as if shocked to find himself laughing while rescuing the boy-who-lived. Harry grinned at his companion. Now that they were alone he wondered at the sincerity of the figure’s intentions. However the figure did not show the same interest in studying Harry, busy fiddling with a set of potions by an ornate dresser.

Unwatched, Harry studied his savior in detail. The dark figure was lanky, possibly thinner than Harry underneath that robe, and on the taller side. Taller than Harry, at least. And shockingly pale, where Harry could see his skin. Almost to the point where the skin of his hands seemed to glow against the darkness drifting off the cloak. If the notion wasn’t completely ridiculous, Harry might suspect he knew the identity of his savior.

But the thought was crazy and besides, thought Harry, Draco Malfoy did not have a jagged pink scar on the back of his left hand. Although he hadn’t seen the other boy in quite a while, Harry Potter was certain Draco Malfoy had absolutely no scars to speak of. The Draco Malfoy Harry knew grew up pampered in the lap of luxury with his every whim and need seen to. The Draco Malfoy Harry knew had never so much as stubbed a toe or scrubbed a dish, and bought into his father’s ideology of hatred completely. Draco Malfoy would not attempt a haphazard rescue attempt on behalf of Harry Potter. No, the idea was mad and wrong. Perhaps though, figuring in the skin and slight figure alone, some distant relation of the Malfoys was a possibility. A second cousin, or something.

The dark figure turned back to Harry, done fiddling with the potions. “Here,” his scarred hand thrust a light blue potion at Harry until he took it. “Drink that and step into the floo. Think of your friends or allies or whatever and it’ll bring you to them, no matter their location.”

Harry inspected the bottle. It was watery and didn’t look familiar. Not that he’d ever been good at potions. “What if they’re nowhere near a floo?”

“Doesn’t matter. The potion warps the magic of the floo so it will take you anywhere. Only downside is how hard it is to brew, so don’t mess up.

Harry frowned. “What is it?”

The figure huffed and crossed their hands. “That is the result of many nights of blood, sweat, and hard work. Now take it and go. Or don’t. Stay and get captured again. See if I care. Merlin knows I’ve done all I can.” 

The figure turned towards the door, but Harry caught his hand before he pulled away. That scarred left hand. “Wait.” Harry ran his thumb over that jagged skin again as he hesitated. “Come with me. You obviously don’t agree with Voldemort’s ideals if you’re rescuing me. Surely there’s no point to you staying here?”

Harry’s rescuer seemed frozen for a second. Was it shock? Then he moved, pulling his hand harshly from Harry’s grip. “Typical Potter. You have to save everything that  _ breathes _ , don’t you?” The tone was cold and mocking and  _ familiar _ and Harry took a step back. “It’s a wonder you ever manage to get anything done with that attitude. Fortunately not everyone in the world is waiting with baited breath for your hero-complex to come  _ save _ the them. Some of us have our _ own  _ plans.” 

Harry gaped and the figure moved closer to the door, one hand already on the handle before he turned to face Harry one last time. “Run along now Potter. The Dark Lord is due to return from this very floo within the hour and it would be most unfortunate if you were to be the one to greet him. It’s the only open floo in the entire house aside from the dining room, and that one is guarded by his giant fucking snake. So if I were you, I’d hurry.” And with that the dark figure slipped through the door, leaving Harry alone.

Harry took a moment to process the information his savior had let slip. The longer he hesitated, the greater the risk, but did he trust the mysterious dark figure enough to swallow an unknown potion and hope it worked as he said? The man had radiated darkness and hadn’t been very kind and hadn’t even asked if Harry had any clue where he was going. Didn’t he want to make sure Harry escaped safely?

But Harry didn’t have time to feel frustrated. With Gryffindor bravery he knocked back the contents of the pale blue potion, pocketed the vial and then, thinking very firmly of Remus Lupin and the Order of the Phoenix, stepped into the fireplace.

There was a rushing sensation and Harry became dimly aware he was standing on grass, facing a very familiar, though blurry, house. It was dark out, but that did not account completely for the blur. Harry realized he must have arrived at the very edge of the protective wards which were obscuring his view of the house, though not as completely as they could have since he already knew it existed. Harry needed permission from someone inside to pass the wards though.

Still, between torture, starvation, running around a cold manor, and traveling by floo- did that count as floo travel if he hadn’t even landed in another fireplace? He’d ponder that later- Harry was too exhausted to even call out. Instead he opted to let his shaking knees crumble, tipping off the wards as he brushed against them on his way to the ground. Home was within sight, and Harry was too exhausted and relieved to care about anything else. 

He was awake for long enough to see the door to the back porch swing open- was that Remus’ voice he heard calling out?- and then was gone to the world as darkness claimed him.

 

 


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up and gets a visitor. Or something.

Harry woke to a familiar setting. Light streamed in from the windows as if welcoming him to his room in Grimmauld Place. Formally Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the number in front of the house had changed when Sirius and Remus, with a spot of help from Hermione’s cleverness, moved the house in its entirety from top to bottom to the middle of rural nowhere. It was now number 66.5 Grimmauld Place, surrounded by plains of unruly wheat grass on one side and a deep forest on the other. The location had been picked carefully. Their neighbors were miles apart on either side, making it unlikely anyone would ever stumble across so much as the shimmer of air that signified the existence of Grimmauld Place. 

Number 66 was a farm run by an old muggle nearing retirement who walked with a limp and a cane and owned no less than six dogs. Number 67 was a rarely rented log cabin right on the edge of the forest, just run down enough to rarely attract tourists during the holidays. It was the ideal area to hide a safehouse.

Harry burrowed deeper into his bed. His sheets rubbed pleasantly against his cheek and for the first time in many days Harry felt clean and safe. After his time in the dungeons of the mansion, nothing felt better than sleeping in the soft comfort of his bed, bathed in sunlight from the window, further comforted by the sounds of breakfast starting up from the kitchen downstairs. Pans sizzling, plates clinking, and low laughter mixed with quiet conversation, further muffled through the floorboards. The sounds, Harry thought, of his friends and family. Not blood family, but the only family alive that had ever mattered to him anyway. They were the people who went out of their way to make sure Harry knew he mattered. Not as a savior or a prophesied child, but as a friend. A son. A human. 

If left alone Harry may well have spent all morning laying in bed, simply listening to the welcome sounds of the people he loved. Instead, there was a knock on his door and a warm voice that Harry immediately placed as Remus. Lupin entered Harry’s room quietly. Harry kept still with his eyes closed, wanting to prolong the peace and silence as much as he could. Being awake meant existing outside of simple sounds and comfort, and it meant talking about what had happened. Harry didn’t want to talk. He wanted to exist in simplicity just a little longer.

He listened as Remus moved closer, a clink on his nightstand and wafting smells telling Harry that breakfast was being dropped off.

“Harry,” Remus spoke softly.

Harry did his best not to move.

“Harry,” a pause, “I can tell you’re awake. You snore very loudly when you sleep and you are most definitely not snoring now.”

Harry opened his eyes. “I do not snore when I sleep.”

Lupin leaned over, meeting Harry’s gaze with a soft smile. “Only sometimes. But that worked, didn’t it?”

Harry groaned, throwing a hand over his face. “Yeah, alright,” he mumbled, “I’m up.” He removed his hand, shifting to sit up slowly. While he found most of the pain from his torture was gone, a dull ache still remained- ghost of pain that healing spells and potions could do nothing about. Remus looked at Harry with worry in his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I just played a very long Quidditch match alone against five beaters with no snitch. Does that sum it up all right?”

Remus nodded, his face grave despite Harry’s humor. He met Harry’s eyes, making a point to watch the teen for a minute, to catalogue any discomfort. The man broke a moment later, expression falling as he blurted,  “I’m sorry, Harry- sorry we didn’t get you out. Sorry we weren’t any help at all. The Order failed you. We failed you. I failed you.”

It pained Harry to see his former professor look so solemn. His expression was too grim, too real in the backdrop of his sunny bedroom. 

“You’re helping now, aren’t you?” Harry supplied, hoping to ease the atmosphere. Somehow Remus’ face became more pained and Harry rushed on, “Don’t feel bad! I’m safe now. Someone got me out in the end, so no real harm done, right?”

Remus calmed a bit only to watch Harry carefully when he looked up, expression searching the boy’s face. “Perhaps we should save this discussion for later. It’s too much for everyone right now and I get the impression you have yet to process everything, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t wanted to talk, at all, but Remus’ careful tone was frustrating. How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort if everyone treated him like glass? Suddenly Harry felt the urge spill everything, as long as it took that careful tone out of his friend’s voice. “No, let’s talk. Let’s talk about this now.” 

Remus made a pained noise. 

“The snatchers took me to Malfoy Manor and questioned me. I don’t know anything about the Order’s plans so I didn’t tell them anything. Though,” Harry paused, “we may need to be a bit cautious about the beach house, for now. I think I may have mentioned it.” Harry winced. They’d managed to get him talking about the safe house after Harry had turned mostly incoherent. He remembered blips of what had been found out, but large parts of that memory were simply a black haze of pain. Much of the questioning after a certain point digressed into brief moments of coherence followed by overwhelming blackness. Harry rushed on. “But I recognized some of them. Not everyone wore hoods and masks. And now we know for sure that they’re using the Manor as a base. I know which floos are still active in the mansion. My stay with the Death Eaters wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t useless.”

None of this information seemed to placate Remus. “Harry-” 

But Harry never found out what Remus had been about to say as suddenly the house  _ shivered _ . It reminded Harry of a full-body shudder, windows vibrating and floors creaking. Remus fell silent. Harry sent a questioning look at his old professor, who looked like he was listening intently for something.

“Professor? What was that?” There was much shouting of the panicky variety in the kitchen downstairs, but Harry didn’t hear anything to indicate what was going on.

Remus turned stiffly to look out the window. “That,” he spoke disbelievingly, “was the wards. We’ve been breached.” 

Without another word Remus was out of the room, wand drawn at his side. Harry attempted to follow, but simply collapsed on the floor the second he tried to put any weight on his feet. He’d forgotten how weak his stay at the manor had left him. Trembling with effort, Harry raised himself off the floor into a sitting position and leaned his back against the side of his bed. He would need a moment before he could attempt to move again, already drained by his effort.

It made Harry glad Remus had left without pause. It would be embarrassing for anyone to have witnessed that. Harry had been aware his body had suffered between the starvation and not being able to move much in the cramped dungeon cell, but he hadn’t thought he was this effected. 

With no other choice but to sit and wait, Harry closed his eyes and listened to the noises downstairs. Clattering and muffled shouts slowly died down, switching to angry and quick conversation. Voices that had been confused turned sharp as floorboards creaked and a new voice joined the mix from the back door. Harry recognized the voices of Sirius Black, Lupin, Tonks, Ron and Arthur Weasley, and.. Harry held his breath, listening. Could it be?

It was muffled, but still Harry could make out the slightly posh tones. The clipped way of speaking. What sounded like a sneer in response to a question from Sirius. It was a voice Harry hadn’t thought he’d hear again so soon- or ever again. As Harry listened, he couldn’t help but think it was the most unfriendly voice he’d ever heard. Like the speaker went out of his way to sound as hostile and cold as possible. And Harry couldn’t help but feel that he  _ knew _ that voice, but it was impossible. It was  _ not _ Draco Malfoy. A close cousin, certainly. 

And then Sirius’ voice was back to shouting, though Harry still couldn’t make out the words. How had his savior found him again? Was he a spy, working for the Light? Or had he somehow tracked Harry down? He wished he was downstairs, there to see and hear whatever was going on and confirm for himself what was going on. 

Just then the voices quieted and switched to muffled whispering. Was his savior still there? What was the whispering about? There were footsteps on the staircase, and Harry had a second to feel some sort of nervous excitement before Remus poked his head though Harry’s door. “Harry? I don’t wish to panic you, but there is someone in Death Eater robes downstairs claiming he wishes you no harm. I wouldn’t trust him, but he got through some quite complicated wards that wouldn’t have allowed him to pass unless he was telling the truth. We’ve got every wand in the house besides mine and yours pointed at him right now, but he seems to think he has the right to demand to meet with you. I don’t suppose you happen to know what he’s on about.” A pause that Remus misinterpreted and he continued on, “Just say the worry Harry, and we’ll hex him right out the door. He won’t get near you.”

But Harry found his words and replied, “Does he have a scar? On the back of his left hand?” Remus turned to shout the question down the stairs and Harry took a moment to gather himself. He couldn’t decide what made him most nervous. That his Death Eater savior had tracked him down at an unplottable location? That a Death Eater had shown up and instantly broken through wards that should have kept him out? That he was demanding to see Harry? 

Harry was still debating it when Sirius’ voice floated up the stairs to Harry’s room, an answer in affirmative to his question. Harry Potter’s savior was here.

\---  
“Let me feel your scar. The one on your hand” Harry held out his hand to his visitor, palm up and expectant. Remus had helped him back into bed before giving the stranger permission to come upstairs. Half of the Order had followed him up and stood crowded around Harry’s doorway. 

It looked like the man from last night, the cloak certainly had the same ominous tendrils of darkness radiating off it as Harry remembered. But Harry would know for sure once he felt that scar. The feeling was ingrained into Harry’s sensory memory, like he’d just been holding that scar moments ago, instead of yesterday in a half-starved, desperate and exhausted haze.

The stranger held out his left hand, ungloved today, after only a little hesitation. Harry saw the scar in all its glory with the help of the daylight streaming through his windows. It was a puckered pink and raised thing, angry-looking and badly healed. Harry looked at the scar and understood something that confused him.

“This wasn’t healed with magic.” The words slipped out without Harry intending them to, but it was too late to take them back. He glanced up to see if he’d offended his guest, hoping he could pick up some indication behind the expressionless mask. 

His savior shrugged, the movement casual. Not offended then. “It’s healed just fine.” The voice offered neutrally, hand held out inches from Harry’s own.

Harry broke the distance between their hands and clasped it at last, closing his eyes as his thumb ran over the raised skin. Harry let his senses take over as he re-acquainted himself with every bump and groove. He’d only help it once before, but every divet felt familiar. It felt right.

Not opening his eyes, Harry asked the question that had lain in the back of his mind since he’d first laid eyes on that scar in his cell in the manor, “How did you get it?”

There was a sharp intake of breath that could have come from anyone crowding around the room (Sirius or Arthur or Ron or Bill or Tonks), and Remus stuttered, “Harry, that’s terribly rude-”

“It’s a traditional wizarding punishment. Disappointments get their wand hand broken. Most don’t practice it anymore, but my parents made.. an exception. They let it heal naturally to remind me to not disappoint them again.” 

The posh voice was smooth and calm despite what it was describing. The room went quiet again, except this time Harry felt more aware of the tension radiating from their spectators. No one had agreed to let Harry meet his mystery rescuer alone. Harry suspected it was partly because of the Death Eater regalia. Which begged the question, why wear it? 

“Your hand was broken as a punishment. By your parents.” Harry clarified, eyes still closed and thumb still tracing ridges, more for comfort now than to confirm his savior’s identity.

The stranger replied easily, without hesitation. “No. My parents simply gave permission. The Dark Lord broke it.”

Harry opened his eyes. “What for?”

“Failure to kill. I’m a blood purist, not a hit-wizard.” The cloaked figure sounded annoyed, but Harry’s blood ran cold. 

“You believe in blood purity then? You’re on his side-”

The man snorted before Harry got any further. “I said I believe in blood purity, not that I’m out to kick puppies. Are purebloods better? Sure. Does that mean I’m willing to put in extra work to put others down? No. If anything, as superior wizards purebloods should offer a helping hand to their inferiors. Share old wizarding secrets, and the like.”

Harry’s rescuer believed in pureblood superiority. But he didn’t sound like he has interested in hurting anyone. And he had agreed to meet Harry with every wand in the house pointed as his back. He didn’t seem intent on betraying Harry or giving him up to the Dark Lord. Still, he kept his mask on and his features covered. Which begged the question, why? “Who are you?”

“A friend,” was the immediate reply, followed by, “or, at least an ally.” It was the first time the cool stranger had sounded unsure. “I mean you no harm. I hate He-Who-Is-A-Snake-Face as much as anyone in this room. Maybe more, since I’ve had the  _ pleasure  _ of spending time with him.” 

The cloaked man said the word pleasure the way a child said  _ vegetables _ , like a slur. And creative way of naming Voldemort aside, Harry was unsatisfied with the answer. “Why be a Death Eater then?” 

Remus and the rest of the room watched on silently. Harry got the impression all of them were ready to start hexing at a moments notice, and would do so with glee. They had agreed to let the masked man meet with him at Harry’s own insistence, but no one liked it. 

The figure shrugged. “I fell into the wrong side. There are a few others like me. Always meaning to switch, never seeming to find a good opportunity.”

“And rescuing me is your opportunity.”

“In a way.” The man paused, “I’m still officially with Lord Moldy Face. No one knows my true feelings. I managed to place the blame for your escape elsewhere. So I’m here to make an offer.”

Harry was about to ask what the offer was when the voice rushed on, clarifying,  “To you. This offer is to you and you alone. Not the Order. Not your friends. Not anyone. Just you.”

Harry hesitated. It was a strange stipulation. “Why?”

“I figure you could use-”

“No. Why me specifically? What makes me worthy of your offer, and no one else?”

The stranger paused. The cloak shifted as he tilted his head to the side for a moment as if thinking or studying Harry. Then righted it before he replied, “I trust you.”

But that wasn’t a real answer and Harry knew it. “Because I’m famous?”

“Because you’re prophesied to defeat Snakeface. Fate’s left you with no choice but to end him.”

That was a fair answer, at least. 

“Not many know the prophecy,” Harry pointed out.

“I’m inner circle.” Well that explained that.

Harry thought it over. “Give me something to call you by. Before you state your offer.” It was getting tiring thinking of him as just some cloaked stranger. Maybe with a name, even a fake one, Harry could steady the uncertainty he felt about the whole situation.

Silence, then, “Dreadful.”

Silence again, but of the shocked variety from the side of the room that had stood listening. Harry was slower to clue in.

“You’re-,” began Lupin.

“Dark times. Dreary business. Dreadful life,” the stranger rattled off, like a checklist. It seemed to make sense to the rest of the room, though Harry remained confused.

“Are you saying-” Lupin started and then stuttered before starting again, “Are you saying you are  _ the _ Dreadful? From the papers? The informant for the Quibbler?”

The man- Dreadful?- lifted the hand Harry wasn’t holding in a small wave “Surprised?”

Tonks spoke up for the first time. “You’re the Lovegood’s informant?” And it clicked for Harry. 

Despite spending most of his time the past year in hiding in one forest or another, Harry had heard of him. The Quibbler, once the most scoffed at and dismissed paper in the wizarding world had risen in fame after someone had started writing into the paper under the name ‘Dreadful’, Dreadful shared secrets of the Dark Side in short letters. The secrets shared ranged from the mundane, “Bellatrix LeStrange picks her nose”, to the shocking, “Attack on muggle town near coast in two days. Location in crossword.” And the author always, always signed their name  _ Dreadful _ .

And the supposed Dreadful replied, “Well someone has to be, don’t they? How else is the wizarding world to get the latest gossip on his Lordship and his band of miserable men?”

“But what that ‘Dark times’ stuff earlier? What does that mean?” Harry demanded.

To Harry’s surprise, Arthur Weasley replied first. “Dreadful sends his letters to the Quibbler in code first. It’s how he signs every letter to let the Lovegoods know it’s really him. I know because I’ve helped crack a few.”

Dreadful inclined his head in a nod, adding, “Luna spent a bit of time in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons during Moldy’s takeover. It was already a Death Eater base at the time and we got to talking.” Harry remembered the time period Dreadful, as he claimed to be, was referring to. 

When Voldemort had first risen, the families of media editors and members of the ministry of magic had been kidnapped as leverage. As Xenophilius Lovegood’s only family member, Luna had been among those held hostage to encourage prominent members of society to promote the ideals of blood purity to the masses. For a few weeks, the Quibbler had published oddly speculative pieces about the importance of blood purity. Until Luna was eventually returned once Voldemort took over, not a single nargle was mentioned.

“Snakeface released everyone after he won the seat of prime minister, but we stayed in contact,” the stranger claiming to be Dreadful continued. “It was a mix of both our ideas. I came up with the original idea of writing into the Quibbler. Luna came up with tagline and code for the letters. The girl thinks in strange and oddly impressive ways, so no one can ever hope to fake one of my letters.” He finished his explanation with a shrug from underneath the cloak.

Harry thought on it a bit. “So Luna knows who you are? Your real identity?”

A nod from Dreadful.

“And she trusts you?”

Another nod and followed by a firm, “And I trust her.” 

Harry thought it over. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Dreadful queried. 

Harry looked up, right where he figured Dreadful’s eyes would be behind that mask. “Alright. If Luna knows who you are and she trusts you, that’s good enough for me. Make your offer.” 

And Dreadful did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter was mostly a lot of talking. Talk talk talk. Promise things happen in the next one.


End file.
